


Jeeves and the Second Sir

by utopiantrunks



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-30
Updated: 2007-07-30
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utopiantrunks/pseuds/utopiantrunks
Summary: Jeeves and Bertie settle a question of nomenclature.





	Jeeves and the Second Sir

"I say, Jeeves." It was evening. Night, actually, I suppose, though not so terribly late for the fashionable young gentleman about London, I should say, and Jeeves and I were engaged in what had recently become our post-nightcap routine. 

"Yes, sir?" replied the honest fellow with that expression of the attentive retainer which is, as near as I can tell, the most comforting and uplifting sight a chap can come across: a sort of all's-peachy-in-this-best-of-all-possible, combined with your-wish-is-my-command-as-long-as-your-wish-isn't-to-go-out-in-that-white-hat-or-tie-with-the-little-horseshoes-on. Infinitely comforting, I say, because Jeeves really can deliver on the all-peachy front, so, beset as one might be by the slings and arrows, as soon as one has the chap's ear, one feels that all the s. and a. of ourageous f. have legged it in favour of easier prey. 

"I wonder," I said slowly. 

"Yes, sir?" 

"If it's quite, well... appropriate, don't you know... for you to call me 'sir' when our, ah, association has, er, progressed as far as... well, as it has. Eh?" 

"It should be most inappropriate for me to address you as anything else, sir, given our professional relationship." 

"Well, in company, perhaps, yes, but..." 

"Even when we are alone, sir, decorum demands the correct forms of address between master and man." 

I've always felt somewhat daring referring to myself as Master in front of Jeeves. It gives me something of the quick, exhilarating rush of the moment when the policeman's helmet comes free on a well-executed grab. I mean to say, the expression had fallen into some disuse what with the turn of the century and enlightened modern thought, and all, and to refer to myself as the master, rather than the more technically correct employer of a man with Jeeves's superhuman intellect rather felt like getting away with something I oughtn't, hence the quick e. r. Hearing Jeeves use it, at this particular juncture, sent rather a strong shiver through me and I had to steady myself against his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitched. "But Jeeves," I persevered, "no one would know." 

"I should know, sir, and count myself remiss in my duties." 

"Well, I wouldn't want that," I said. Considering how downright depressed he can get over breaches of decorum like young gentlemen remaining in a state of undress until evening, if he held himself guilty of such a breach, I'd have to steer clear of the country manors forever more, lest he find himself a sword to fall on. "But, dash it, Jeeves..." And here Jeeves's ministrations to my general well-being cost me several minutes of what might otherwise have been coherent speech. This momentary weakness conquered, I forged on, "Can we really have you calling me 'sir' when we are getting to know each other in the King James sense of the thing?" 

There was another quirk of the lips and an accompanying raise of the eyebrow--a whole quarter inch, I should think, though perhaps the angle had affected my ability to judge it--which I took to mean that my deep reasoning and keen wit had made their impression and he was about to cede the point. 

"If it would ease your mind, sir," said Jeeves, and here he adjusted both of our positions as carefully as he would a place setting before a formal, or, indeed, any, dinner, "you might think, when you hear me say 'sir,' of what I actually mean by the appellation." 

"Beyond, the, ah," and here I labored to keep the words flowing past the larynx in the usual manner, as Jeeves's precision had rather done its work--he does always say the details are crucial, "feudal, that is?" 

"Yes, sir. Beyond the feudal sentiment which, I assure you, sir, flourishes in my breast." 

"No fear of my doubting it, Jeeves." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"So, ah... beyond that...?" 

"Beyond that, sir--" 

"Mm." 

"What I mean, sir, when I call you 'sir'--" 

"Yes..." 

"Is the following, sir..." And I must point out, here, by way of explanation of my own rather paltry contributions to this next exchange, that Jeeves punctuated--if punctuated is the word I want--each of his lines with what might be termed an advancement of the mutual interests of both parties, if you follow me. 

"My dearest." 

"Ah..." 

"Bright and beautiful one." 

"Oh." 

"Best Beloved." 

"Hm." 

"Keeper of my heart." 

"Ah, I..." 

"Master of my fate." 

"Mmm..." 

His voice fell lower, and his tone as he breathed this next entry into my ear defies my powers of description, though I daresay he would've found a word for it: "My desire." 

There I was forced to stop him, for we had reached a crucial point in the proceedings, as it were, and I threw my arms about his neck and mustered the breath to utter, "Jeeves." 

"Sir?" he said, in the same indescribable tone, which had the effect rather of hurrying things along towards their inevitable conclusion. 

"Jeeves... _rem acu_... _tetigisti_ , Jeeves." 

I had closed my eyes, so I couldn't say for certain, but I thought I detected a slight increase in the quirk of his lips as he said, "I am gratified to hear it, sir." 

Then for some moments, there was no talk at all. 

  
  
When I had regained my powers of speech, some time later, and we were comfortably settled, I reopened the subject. "It does ease my mind, Jeeves." 

"That is a relief to me, sir." 

"There is a small wrinkle, though." 

"What is that, sir?" 

"Well, you can't really mean all of those things when, say, we're on the train, or at dinner with Aunt Agatha." 

"No, sir. While these words sleep entwined with your name in my heart at all times, it would be indecorous of me to voice them, even under the aegis of a feudal utterance, while I was operating in a professional capacity." 

"Quite," I agreed, and was about to settle in for the recommended eight when another snag presented itself to the Wooster grey matter. "But Jeeves, how will I tell the difference?" 

"Ah," said Jeeves. "Well, sir, when I mean it purely as a matter of feudal form, it shall sound like this, sir." 

I nodded, committing this particular specimen to memory. 

"And when I mean it to express my deeper feelings for you, I shall say it thus... sir." He said it, I need hardly tell you, with that other, deeper tone whose description continues to elude me. I told him I had grasped the difference. 

"You know, though, Jeeves... that's a dangerous bit of inflection you've got hold of, there. Rather engenders in the audience the desire for a repeat performance, you know." 

Jeeves inclined his head with another quirk of the lips--one which, I knew, would have been an ear-to-ear on a mortal man. "That is always a danger inherent, sir, in using true blades during training, as it were. I shall endeavour to give satisfaction." 

And he did. 

* * *

Jeeves's elucidation--it is elucidation, I think, unless it's elusive... idity... ation--of the finer points of sirring did have one other side effect, which I first discovered at dinner at Brinkley Court some weeks later. 

The company--who at the time included the frightful Lady Florence Craye--had just grappled its way out of its seats after one of Anatole's most inspired seven-coursers and the idea of coffee in the drawing room was being bandied about. In the midst of much groaning over full stomachs and reminiscences of the meal just past, Jeeves leaned over my shoulder to inform me that the book I had ordered, _The Strange Affair of the Uneaten Oyster_ , had just arrived from London by post and awaited me in my room, and then, with no regard for time or place, he _sirred_ me with such force that I was quite nailed to the spot. He drifted out with the company, making some excuse for my lagging behind, which, thankfully, no one saw fit to question. 

For some fifteen minutes, I sat alone with my thoughts--which ranged between two extremes, neither fit for polite society--waiting for either an abatement of my condition, which did not come, or rescue, which finally did come shimmering in to inform me of the one unwatched route back up to my room. He met me there, and denied having used the 'second sir' on me, insisting that I must have misheard him, though I'm quite positive I didn't. Still, he was so dutiful in ministering to my condition that I found myself unwilling to pursue the argument. 

He was quite right to have detained me, anyhow. Dreadful imbroglio in the drawing room with Aunt Dahlia and Lady Florence that I'd just managed to keep clear of putting my foot in. But that's a story for another time, what?


End file.
